Fiat Topolino: The Original 500

Original Test: The First-Ever Fiat 500 A.K.A. The Topolino

Radicalism stopped at the power plant and drive line. No converted motorcycle engine driving the wheels by chain or belts would do. No, if it was to be a real car it would have to have a real engine, and a no-nonsense system of turning the rear wheels. This meant four cylinders, side valves, solid drive shaft and rear axle with differential. The design elements may have been conservative, but their diminutive size gave it all an air of whimsey. Giacosa, whose main job was designing giant S.P.A. trucks, must have smiled when he contemplated four cylinders whose total swept volume was 570cc—or about the capacity of one cylinder in a modern Ford V-8. And a drive shaft that was only a little thicker and longer than a walking stick.

The designer may have smiled over his little jewel, but was in dead earnest about the performance he demanded from it. It was intended to give 13 horsepower at 4000 rpm, and to continue to do so up Alp and down Alp. This meant long climbs in low gear at full throttle. With an Italian at the wheel it also meant flat-out blinds down the other side in top—at speeds above 70 mph. The naturally short crankshaft—the cast iron block was no longer than a shoebox—was supported in just two bearings. Pressure lubrication was supplied by a pump situated in the front of the stamped sheet metal oil sump. The muffin-tin-sized head was a neatly finished casting in aluminum. The bell-housing and gearbox case were also in this lightweight metal. It was not designed to be unbreakable. Nor was it purposely restricted—as engines in cars meant for a more phlegmatic race—to make it so. For an artful driver it would, seemingly, give a little more than 13 hp; while a conductor with a poor ear, and coordination to match, would have it a smoking red ruin inside of 100 miles. In short, it was the right combination of engine and transmission for an economy car intended for a volatile population. One that rewarded an artist, and penalized the clod.

1960 Fiat 500

The running gear was in keeping with the all-or-nothing power package. Big 15-inch wheels with healthy-sized telescopic shocks at each corner were intended for velocities much higher than the A model 500's maximum of 53 mph. The same was true of the worm and sector steering. Turning radius was a little over 14 feet, and there was no play at the steering wheel rim. The eight-inch prewar Plymouth-sized hydraulic brakes were big enough for a . . . prewar Plymouth!

The debut of this, the first modern mini car, generated a lot of interest in its native country. Billed as "A miniature big car" (there'll always be an ad man—even in Italy during the '30s) it represented quite a value. For $500 a fortunate Italian owner got four-wheel hydraulic brakes, four-speed synchromesh gearbox, independent front suspension, hydraulic shock absorbers, electric windshield wipers, interior light, adjustable bucket seats, sun visors, safety glass all around, sunshine roof, instruments (including oil pressure gauge!) and the unalloyed envy of all his neighbors. Some of these features have only come into use on low-cost American cars since World War II.

The factory claimed 53 mph and 47 mpg for its new baby. In an "Autocar" road test of the period both figures were exceeded. The testers said that the car's free-revving engine and smooth shape put 60 and over on the clock whenever road conditions were the least bit favorable.

Fiat 500s

Considered minimal transportation in its own country, the Model A 500 Fiat seemed much more than that to sporting drivers in other parts of Europe. Impecunious enthusiasts—to use that lovely English phrase for poor car nuts—were drawn to the 500 like iron filings to a magnet, and the professional tuners were not far behind them. Soon Topolinos (it took the Italian populace only a short time to affectionately tag the new car "Mickey Mouse," or Topolino for short) with special heads and exhaust systems were dusting off the more stodgy family sedans all over the continent—and some of the more stodgy roadsters.

Of course they were raced. A few were entered in the 1937 Mille Miglia, and in an even greater number in the 1938 event. As Italian hot rodders gained experience with Fiat's little gift to the amateur race driver, more and more Topolinos appeared at the start for the 1000 mile all-out race around Italy. What could be more natural than to take a number-bedecked Topo down the flood-lit starting ramp in Brescia? It didn't matter that there were a hundred other identical cars, starting at one-minute intervals. Or that many packed up before the first control with every variety of human and mechanical mal de mer known to man. A start in the Mille Miglia with your trusty Topolino was good for conversation all through the year. And to finish . . . that was good for a lifetime. It was good clean fun and the majority of entrants drove not to win but just to be part of it. This, plus the Topo's good brakes and road holding, kept the early Mille Miglias remarkably free from nasty incidents.

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